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Month: October 2015

Ah Halloween, tis the season for face holes and lacerations and a horde of zombifications of all different kinds. People have these tendencies to hack up pumpkins with murderously sharp influences and run in the streets with gay abandon because they’re joyfully contemplating the sheer volume of sweets they’re about to cram down their unsuspecting gullets.

So obviously the beleaguered health services have a lot to worry about on today of all days (you know, apart from the ill effects of Christmas arguments, cracked and broken hearts that are the sure results of Valentine’s Day shenanigans and the plethora of injuries that come from slippery snow on the ground). And they’ll have to be quick off the mark to spot what’s real and what’s not.

Some healthcare professionals, who fancy themselves rather impressive detectives, will take events like this as something of a challenge. They’ll swagger up to zombies and nonchalantly apply tetanus jabs. Or give sexy cats the Heimlich manoeuvre (yes, they ought to be called abdominal thrusts but somehow that feels very wrong in this particular context. I’m not entirely sure why).

Come what may, the doctors, nurses, porters and anyone and everyone else who works in the emergency room and beyond will do their best to patch up the idiots who’ve managed to bang themselves up. In spite of what the government has to say about their efforts. And what they’re doing to their contracts and hours and absolutely everything else.

Because it’s not an easy profession (and I don’t merely say that as someone who didn’t make the cut into doctoring – it’s a very good thing all round). People put in very long shifts to make idiots (among other people of course, but there’s something of a surplus of idiots on days like these) feel better. And they deserve more appreciation because no one else is going to stitch moron’s thumbs back on after they’ve got their chainsaws out.

What with Facebook and CCTV being a police officer is dead boring in this day and age. Everyone reports on each other and absolutely no crimes go unnoticed. I’m telling you, it’s basically the utopian vision dreamt up by George Orwell in that famous novel I can’t quite remember at this particular moment in time.

When little boys and girls dream of being in the constabulary they imagine daring car chases or foiling jewellery heists left, right and centre. Probably. I wouldn’t really know, I was going to be an astronaut ballerina or something of that description. Anyway, one of the biggest cons about growing older and up is that you find your dreams don’t quite come true. You might actually become a police person but you find that it’s a much more admin focused role than you had previously anticipated.

So it’s hardly all that much of a surprise that the police have decided to try and sex up their role in society just a little bit. Imagine, if the criminal element had actual magical powers then the kudos that would be due for catching them would be that little bit more fulsome. You’d be allowed to put the sirens on full whack if you were in pursuit of an airborne thief coursing down the motorway. Or if they could get animals to do their bidding it would make stake outs a lot more like nature documentaries and you know how crazy the police go over those.

It’s not just the police, look at the indomitable rise of the superhero film in recent years. Everyone wants to be specials and mythical powers are a sure fire way to become so. If it takes the police making supervillains out of the regular kind for a hero to come and save us shouldn’t we go with it. We seriously need some saving after all.

Whether you are so inclined to believe it or not, staggeringly outlandish sums of money didn’t need to change hands after all. Sure, it was a lot easier to throw a stack of cash at the committee for the rights to throw the party but not actually essential. Someday I’m sure I’ll have some basic understanding of precisely why people go so thoroughly dotty over football. However, now is not that hellish time and I have absolutely no clue as to why people are so inclined to chuck so much currency at it.

Anyway, the bloated bribes could have happily remained in the pockets of their owners. Could have but didn’t. As with so very many problems in life, pharmaceuticals provide the precise answer that absolutely everyone is crying out for. When it comes to issues in the business world, rather than getting mediators or lawyers in to try and straighten things out you really ought to pop a pill instead.

I’m not just talking about the glorious mood altering effects of hallucinogens or opiates (definitely not speaking from experience or anything, I really don’t know what you’re on about with those meaningful glances you’re shooting my way). It’s a widely unreported side effect of beta blockers that they make you much better at cooking. After all, there had to be other consequences of taking medications.

The stuff you take for ADHD also allows you to see extra colours. Pills for the alleviation of arthritis symptoms increase your ability to hit the high notes. And, most importantly and relevantly, statins somehow have this magical ability to make you more receptive to suggestions such as where the football world cup might be hosted in a decade or so. I believe they’re poised to run a trial investigating this niche use of the drug. Watch this space.

Let’s go back to when Britain ruled the waves. I really do think everyone (and by everyone, I do of course mean little red faced men who shout the loudest about the ‘good old days’. Their opinions, after all, are the only ones that truly matter in this day and age) would be happier with this variety of arrangement. We’d have to make one or two improvements obviously.

Forcing a democratic election for a reset to the glory days would be a far better alternative than the slavery tinged frogmarching we perpetrated before (I refuse to crack any books in order to find any supporting evidence because that whole chapter of imperialist history is frankly too depressing). Just pitching ideas here.

Perhaps the best way to go back to how it was before is to address the health aspects of the day. We’re all living for far too long nowadays and it’s having a detrimental effect on the NHS. If we could all possibly just arrange to die earlier of scurvy that would be marvellous. Preferably just after we’ve produced a litter ripe for conversion into a gang of lovable orphan pickpockets.

The quickest way to reintroducing Victorian diseases is living a wholesome Victorian life. Pile on the restrictive undergarments, stop worrying about purifying your water and even have a think about not vaccinating the ones you love. There are plenty in society who are somewhat ahead of me in this particular scheme.

Once our gentle young ladies start perishing of nonspecific weakness and the like everything will get that much more romantic and tragic. Which is definitely the aim of any modern society. We will finally be able to revisit those glorious old remedies like coating one’s chest in chicken fat and shouting in Latin. And don’t forget the gallons of glutinous calves’ foot jelly. Oh it will be ever so much fun.

So that’s the point in having them. It turns out that among the extra special powers granted to peers (for having the good fortune to be born into the correct family) is battling cancer. Their onco-resistant properties simply flow from their hands and into whichever grateful recipient they choose to bless. So the next time a lord of the realm is caught with a prostitute or in a compromising situation you must remember that they’re simply applying their healing hands.

News came out this week that sausages and other processed foods will slaughter you just as surely as smoking fifty simultaneous cigarettes whilst standing in the path of an oncoming articulated lorry stuffed with nuclear waste and serial killers. But I’m not worried. Because the truth has finally come out the magic qualities of those who’ve reigned above us for centuries.

It makes grudging sense. There had to be some secret reason why the class system was still a thing. Otherwise it would be a ridiculous throwback to the times when the aristocracy owned people and they’re just harking back to a bygone era and still managing to profit from it. Which would be silly when we have democracy and all that jazz. Obviously if we were to smash the system whereby people having titles is allowed then the healing powers would melt away into nothingness.

Lords, ladies, barons, dukes, earls and silly gentlemen of leisure finally have a purpose in life. You can’t stuff the genie back in the bottle and renege on the information that they’re the very best way to battle cancer. Forget chemotherapy, radiotherapy and various methods of getting you closer to death by way of a cure. All you need to do is have a cuddle with a marquis for half an hour or so. I think people might actually pick the poisons instead.

They’ve got this whole situation completely and utterly stitched up. What you don’t realise is the extent to which the migrants will coin it in if the UK’s separation from Europe actually occurs. A savvy set of adventuring hopefuls noticed the alarming extent to which certain officials ground their teeth upon encountering increased immigration figures. They recognised the fact that these self-same persons were like to blame many of their bureaucracy issues on the influence of Brussels.

Right there and then a plan was hatched to get those petty minded folk what they wanted and to generate a profit at the same time. A clandestine midnight meeting was proposed and under the cover of darkness the bold deal was struck. The first payment was made and then the industrious nomads were off to launch the initial stage of the convoluted strategy.

Before anyone else was any the wiser, the tired and poor huddled masses yearning to be free were pouring into Europe past their utterly overwhelmed border controls. It had absolutely nothing to do whatsoever with fleeing in terror from horrors most of us can only imagine. They weren’t pursuing the dream of a hope of something better. For their leaders it was pure calculated greed as they’d been promised a healthy cut of the eventual bounty. Those who followed them merely put blind faith on the line.

Everyone got just a little bit riled up. How dare people come and try and build a life on our own personal sacred turf? The hotting up of the situation, of course, was all part of the master scheme. Questions started to be raised and the one that was shouted about the most loudly just so happened to be whether Britain should stay or go with regards to the continent of Europe. Now that people are good and incensed over the migration issue it should be a simple hop, skip and jump to an exit vote and a massive payday for some smug immigrants who are currently looking at holiday homes in the Bahamas.

Sure, it’s a very frowned upon thing nowadays to try and buy someone in any context. And the sheer notion that something as serious as marriage should be made analogous to such a frivolous thing as a mere business transaction patently absurd. Nevertheless, sometimes needs must and one has to turn their attention to the idea that money may need to change hands in order for them to achieve the state of wedded bliss.

You know, because getting hitched is almost always an extremely easy and cheap process and they never whack the price up by two or three hundred per cent just because someone mentioned the word ‘wedding’. Anyway, this is very much a situation outside of the norm, especially as no one is supposed to know that Samantha’s out of the picture just yet. It’s not important with regards to this story what happened to her, the most relevant thing is that the public must never know.

It would reflect absolutely awfully in the prime minister if his wife completely disappeared and he didn’t have a backup ready to go. Who would escort him to private functions and pick out his ties for him in the morning? It would be tantamount to a public disaster. Luckily, David has plenty of great minds at work when it comes to cracking potential problems like this before they leak out into the public arena.

This one happened to be a real head scratcher. People were up all night devoting all their little grey cells to generating reasonable solutions. Everyone was exhausted by the time a worried Mr Cameron fluttered in wondering how successful they’d been. A leading advisor was especially loathe to admit defeat. He suggested that David could always pay him an appearance fee to pretend to be the new Mrs Cameron. So it’s probably more of a rental plan but there’s every chance it could go perm.